Ships In the Night and Other Mysteries
by MarshallGray
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is sent on a world cruise to recover from an assassination attempt. Greg Lestrade is the detective sent to guard him. Mycroft needs rest and a bit of TLC. Sherlock has other ideas. Slightly AU. (Please review to help me improve.)
1. Chapter 1

The man was tall. Thin. Unhealthily so, as though he had recently lost a great deal of weight. Pale skinned with a web of blue veins tracing underneath. Delicately groomed eyebrows, pale copper, not quite matching the dark colour of the short hair on his head. Pale eyes as well. Blue. Full of pain. His suit was expensive, the drape of the cloth gave it away. Tailored but not quite fitting properly, as though it had been made for some other version of this man. He moved as though his joints were made of glass. As though every breath caused him effort.

The Cabin Butler was just hanging the last of the expensive shirts up in the wardrobe. The shirts that went with the suits and ties and the other clothes of a man not on holiday. He handed the Butler a fifty pound note, even though the tips were included in the price of the cruise. The Butler took the hint and made himself scarce.

Greg had checked the cabin earlier. They had told him he would be looking after some important politician. Level one clearance. Defence codes. All that sort of thing. All routine for Greg, of course. He did one final sweep to check everything was as it should be.

"It's all clear sir." So far the tall man hadn't said a word, had just looked thoughtfully on at everything. He inclined his head slightly to one side and looked straight at Greg for the first time. Greg felt a shiver go down his spine. In other circumstances the man was probably handsome, even beautiful, almost. But as it was, there was an air of sadness about him. As though his heart had been ripped out. As though he had seen too much pain.

"Thank you, detective. That will be all." He didn't sound how Greg had been expecting. The voice was low and quiet, as though he never had to shout to be obeyed. The speech was deliberate.

"Very good Sir." Greg slipped through the door into the adjoining cabin. Much smaller and less glamorous than the suite he had been in. He supposed at some point it had been the servant's room. Back in the days when people had servants. The rooms weren't used for accommodation these days. Generally they kept them locked and used them for storage.

"Lucky me." Greg surveyed the small room. Next door he heard the shower start up. And then overhead the sound of the ship's horn as it started its way out of port and onto the open seas. He'd always liked the sea. The thought of all that open water. Where it all went. Where it could take you. If he was being honest he'd jumped at the chance of this job. A nice cushy three weeks floating around the world making sure no one poisoned the rum daiquiris. How bad could it be?

An almighty crash from the next door cabin had him reaching for his gun and cursing his thinking. Greg burst through the connecting door and looked around the vast suite. Nothing. Bathroom. Steam. Safety off the gun. It was one of those bathrooms with the panoramic view over the sea. With that special glass you could look out of but no one could look in. The shower was still going and there was a bit of steam on the windows. The tall man was on the floor of the shower. Greg opened the screen door and stepped inside. The warm water raining down on him, fully clothed.

He was so thin. Without his clothes you could see all his ribs, his spine, the sharp protrusions of his hip bones, everything. Just above his left nipple were two neat, barely healed gunshot wounds. Greg knew what was coming as he turned him over. The mass of twisted scar tissue and skin grafts that showed where the exit wounds had been. It must have been a right mess.

"God. I'm so sorry. I must have fainted. Apologies."

"It's fine. Really Sir. Let's get you out of here." There was no real way of preserving the man's dignity until he could sit him down and grab a clean bathrobe. Greg tried not to look. Tried not to imagine what he'd look like without the wasted flesh. The hair on his chest and stomach was gingery, thick, spreading across shoulders that were wider than Greg's but were nothing but bone and sinew, snaking downwards to darken and frame a generously sized cock and... Greg shook his head and focussed. He picked him up.

He could pick him up. That seemed wrong. You shouldn't be able to pick up someone that tall as though they were a child.

"I am so very sorry." The man repeated. A scarlet blush was creeping up his back. "Your suit is ruined detective."

"Trust me, I've had worse. Now I'm just going to ask the ship's doctor to come and check you over." He ignored the protests as he dialled the number, arranging for the Doctor to come at once. Greg removed his soaked jacket, dropping it into the bath where it could do no further damage to the thick carpet.

"Detective, this really isn't necessary."

"I'm afraid Sir that it is. And my name is Greg. Greg Lestrade."

"Gregory is a very lovely name." The blush had progressed up to the man's face. Greg realised his shirt was completely transparent, displaying his muscular torso. The man was trying not to stare. And not doing a very good job.

"No. It's just Greg." His mother called him Gregory when he had been naughty. Did this class as naughty?

"Gregory." The man rolled it around his mouth. "My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

"That's unusual."

"Yes. Yes it is. It's..." But whatever it was, got interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg wasn't quite sure what to do for the best. He helped Mycroft into the fluffy white bathrobe, wondering if he should get him something to eat, or make him a cup of tea. Mycroft's hands were shaking. But Greg also supposed there was a chance he might faint again and hot tea probably wasn't the best idea. He stood dumbly, waiting. Mycroft's breathing didn't sound all that great. The knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts. Gun in hand he motioned Mycroft to ask them in.

"Come in." The door was pushed open, gently, by a short, stocky man with dirty blond hair and stormy blue eyes.

"Hello. I'm John Watson, Ship's Doctor. Someone said it was urgent." He smiled. Greg holstered his gun. "So what happened?"

"He fainted. In the shower." The Doctor took in Greg's dripping clothes.

"Ok. Let's have a look then shall we, Mr...Holmes." Doctor Watson consulted his notebook. He did the usual. Blood pressure. Blood sugar. Heart. Temperature. Barely raised an eyebrow at the bullet wounds. Chewed his bottom lip and sighed a couple of times. Mycroft scowled throughout the whole examination. He reminded Greg of a small boy, only there on the promise of a lollipop. "Your blood sugar is very low. When did you last eat?" Mycroft shrugged. John looked at Greg, expectantly. Greg had no idea either.

"It must have been this morning." Mycroft finally answered.

"Right. Ok. And how long ago were you shot?"

"Ten months. How about you?"

"Sorry?"

"When were you shot? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Three years. How did you know..?"

"You have the bearing of a military man. But not a sailor. A soldier then. As you are a Doctor your most likely to have been in the RAMC. Attached to another division. You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand, although interestingly not when you were examining me. When you reach your movement is limited, suggesting a serious injury. You also have a limp. But there is nothing wrong with your leg, you got down here from the medical wing of the ship very quickly. Quite hard to do if you had a leg injury. That and the tremor suggest a psychological injury as well. PTSD. And where could a Doctor in Her Majesty's armed forces receive such an injury in this day and age? Where else but Afghanistan?"

"You got all that from a shake in my left hand? Brilliant."

"Thank you."

"But stop changing the subject. I'm not the Genius who fainted in the shower. I'd like you to come up to the medical wing for a proper examination later on. In the meantime, ring the steward and get them to bring some food. And then you need to eat it."

"Food?" Mycroft said it as though it was a dirty word.

"Yeah. You can have whatever you like. The most important thing is that you eat something. Okay? And I'll see you at ten O'clock in the morning" Greg ushered the Doctor to the door.

"You sure he's okay?"

"Yeah Mr..."

"Greg. Greg Lestrade."

"Trauma like that takes it out of the body. It's a lot of effort to repair the damage. He looks like he's lost a lot of weight. He just needs to relax and eat and recharge his batteries. I'm sure it's nothing more serious than that. Your husband will be fine."

"My what?"

"I'm sorry, are you two not married?"

"I only met him three hours ago."

"Oh. Oh right. Fine." John Watson looked like he was adding things up in his head. He looked Greg up and down briefly.

"I'm his bodyguard. Mr Holmes works for the British Government."

"Sorry. I just...thought. Well...because...yeah." The Doctor smiled and cleared his throat. "Just make sure he eats something."

Greg sighed and closed the door. Mycroft hadn't moved from the chair, his long fingers steepled in front of him, gently rubbing his forehead.

"Okay, Mr Holmes, we need to order you some food." Greg was avoiding the penetrating gaze. If Mycroft Holmes knew all that stuff just from looking at Doctor Watson for five minutes, what on earth had he found out about Greg in three hours.

"Just order something." He sounded impatiently weary. "And Detective, Gregory, I do wish you would change out of those wet clothes. It is most distracting."

He hauled himself out of the chair and moved over to the sofa, stretching out along it. Greg rang an order through to the steward's office and then hurried through the connecting door to change his clothes.

He looked at himself in the full length mirror. His suit trousers were glued to his soaked boxer shorts. They didn't leave a great deal to the imagination. He undid his belt and slipped the wet clothing off, peeling off his shirt and tie until he was naked. Not bad. He smiled at himself in the mirror. Not bad. Nearly forty, still hard muscled, although his abs weren't as well defined as they had been a few years back. A few grey hairs. Actually a lot of grey hairs. His last call sign had been Brock. The boys in control were hilarious. He flexed his muscles at the man in the mirror, watching a nice collection of bulges forming in all the right places. Then he mentally slapped himself for his vanity. Next door there was some poor guy riddled with bullet scars who looked like a skeleton. Poor taste Greg, poor taste.

Greg felt a little better once he had changed into dry clothes and was quietly blending into the background whilst Mycroft ate.

There was a long list of things Mycroft didn't eat apparently. Chips, Bread, Pasta, Red Meat, Sauces, Puddings, Ice Cream, Dairy, Potatoes. He'd finally settled on a piece of grilled chicken and some vegetables. At least he was eating something. Although Greg was fairly sure John Watson might have something to say about it in the morning.

Greg's hopes of three weeks of promenading the decks and attending glitzy cocktail soirees were disappearing at a rapid rate of knots. Once Mycroft had eaten half of his food, he went to bed. Exhausted. Greg settled himself onto the sofa and helped himself to a piece of the cheesecake he had optimistically ordered. It was going to be a long cruise.

He was woken at two in the morning by the sound of someone trying to pick the lock of the suite. Whilst the cabins all had electronic entry systems, they also had old fashioned key locks as well. Greg reached for his gun and switched out the lights.

The intruder didn't stand a chance. Greg tackled him to the floor and had a knee in his back and a gun to his head in seconds. The lights switched on and a rumpled looking Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Fleetingly Greg thought he looked rather elegant in his silk pyjama bottoms.

"Get off me you idiot." The Intruder snarled and writhed. Greg tightened his grip. Young man. Late twenties perhaps? Dark hair. Slim? No, thin, bony. Badly fitting staff uniform. Probably stolen. "Mycroft, tell him to let me go."

"Do you know this person Sir?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Mycroft looked angry. And disappointed.

"I'm his brother you great lumpy cretin." Greg let the young man go. The scowl on the man's face was a near perfect match for the one on Mycroft's.


	3. Chapter 3

"Brother?" Greg was trying to recall if that had been mentioned in the briefing. He was quite sure it hadn't come up. He looked from one face to the other, trying to find a resemblance. Matching sneers. That obviously ran in the family.

"Not very bright is he?" The brother looked Greg up and down. "And not your usual type at all. How much are you paying this one? And are you paying him by the hour?"

"Do be quiet Sherlock. Detective Lestrade has been assigned as my protection during my enforced holiday."

"That's nice. Who's going to protect him then? If you get desperate."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft gave his brother a poisonous look.

"Well it's true. Career Police officer. Recently separated. Gay. Likes football and lager and loud music."

"What?" Greg's confusion was deepening by the minute. And he was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable with the alarmingly accurate assessment of his personal life.

"Boring!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It must be so dull. Why don't you try doing something interesting? Like reading a book?"

"I must apologise for my brother's behaviour, Gregory. He never did have any manners. Sherlock how did you get on board? I take it you are a stowaway."

"How do you know I didn't get a job?" There was no reply, simply a coppery eyebrow raise. "Anyway, Mycroft, do cover up your disgusting body. It is making me feel quite sick." Sherlock sneered at his brother. And rather self consciously, Mycroft had looked around for another bathrobe.

"I don't care if you're a stowaway or the wine steward. It's two in the morning and Mr Holmes needs rest. Doctor's orders. Now could you please leave Sir?"

"I don't have anywhere to go." It was strange. He looked almost like he was going to burst into tears.

"Sleep on the sofa Sherlock."

"No. I'll sleep on the sofa. You can sleep in my room. Next door." Greg wasn't sure if Sherlock was happy about this or not. He didn't say thank you. He didn't say anything. He just left. Shutting the door behind him quietly, with a loud smirk on his face.

"I do apologise. I will deal with him in the morning." Mycroft looked so tired.

"No harm done. At least I didn't shoot him."

"Better luck next time Detective." Greg smiled, he suspected Mycroft didn't make many jokes.

"Erm...what he said...er..."

"You want to know how he knew all that."

"Yeah. It's what you did with the Doctor earlier isn't it? Go on then. What's the trick?"

"He knew you are a career police officer because of the way you tackled him. Military training teaches you to do it another way. Police are taught to restrain. Military are taught to disable. That it is a long term career is by the fact that you are guarding me. Only a senior officer would be entrusted with that duty. You are recently separated as you still have the mark of a ring on your finger, not a wedding ring though. And this is your first duty with me, ergo a change in your home circumstances has meant you are available for other duties that involve being away for periods of time. You have two tattoos on your upper arms. One is the crest for West Ham Football Club, the other is, I believe for a heavy metal band? That you enjoy a pint is obvious from your general demeanour and you do have a bit of a beer belly. Sorry." He paused blushing. Greg sucked his stomach in.

"And?"

"And what?"

"The other thing."

"What other thing?"

"How did your brother know I'm gay?"

"Oh, are you? I suppose it's because of the way you looked at him. I'm told he is rather attractive. It used to cause all sorts of bother at school. That and the brand of your underwear." The explanation made sense. Sort of. Only there was a slight tone behind it. A tone Greg couldn't quite place. "Goodnight Detective." His shoulders were slumped as he walked to his bedroom.

Greg stood watching the darkness outside the windows for a good five minutes. He supposed Sherlock was quite handsome, if you liked that sort of thing. If you went for pretty boys. Pretty, annoying boys with trouble stamped all over their lovely arses. Greg knew the type. He'd dated a few back in his younger days when he'd been pretty himself. Back when you could have chipped your teeth on his abs. He poked himself in his stomach_. Lay off the pies and beer Greg_.

Greg picked up the files he had been reading earlier. His briefing files. Because you could never be too thorough. There were several photographs included in an envelope marked Confidential. Greg nearly dropped the lot on the floor. They were pictures of Mycroft Holmes. He assumed, as that was what the code on the back meant. But this was not the man currently, hopefully, asleep next door. The man in the pictures was several stones heavier for a start, the broad shoulders Greg had noticed earlier in proportion to the rest of him. There were no hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, no hint of painful injury. Just a powerful looking man standing tall next to the Prime Minister. There was one shot which must have been taken on some official visit. The PM was in Desert Camouflage. So was Mycroft Holmes. And the sight of Mycroft Holmes filling out his uniform was enough to get Greg standing half hard in his trousers. _Unprofessional, Greg._

He wondered what had happened. What had resulted in the wrecked, near emaciated individual he was guarding. Looking after. Because Greg felt an overwhelming urge to look after him. Which was probably even more unprofessional than sitting there dripping into your boxer shorts. Greg put the photos down and turned back to the thick report. He was sure it would contain the details, but not necessarily the answers.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg's neck was moulded to the angle of the arm of the sofa. It felt like someone had tried to unscrew his head. He checked his watch. Just after six. He was hoping Mr. Holmes wasn't going to be awake for a while. Both of the Mr. Holmeses.

The door of the bedroom was slightly ajar and Greg pushed it open gently. True to its first class surroundings, the door was silent. In the twilight of the room, Greg could just make out Mycroft fast asleep on the bed. Covers pushed down, one arm curled around the pillow, hugging it tightly. He crossed the few feet to the bed and pulled the quilt up to cover the sleeping man and then made a silent retreat.

Greg slipped into the shower. He wasn't certain he could use the cupboard sized facilities in his own room without waking Sherlock up. He helped himself to the complementary toiletries in Mycroft's bathroom and enjoyed the view whilst the shower massaged the stiffness out of his neck. Amongst other places.

Greg had woken up hard. And the reason for that, he concluded, was down to the dream he had had during the two hours of sleep he'd managed. A dream that had been heavy on the sexual imagery of one Mr. Mycroft Holmes in an army uniform. Accuracy wasn't all that important. Greg blamed the photographs. He'd had a wet patch on his boxer shorts when he'd woken up. And his erection was still annoyingly persistent. He palmed the hard flesh. It bounced in front of him, pointing upwards towards his belly button. He closed his eyes, taking a tighter hold, imagining someone else's hands on him. Someone else pressed up against his back. He thought about Russell. Russell always used to join him in the shower, big arms wrapped around Greg , soft belly pressed into his back, cheerfully large erection rubbing against his arse.

Holmes junior had been perfectly correct. Greg had split up with Russell three months previously. He'd only just got round to taking the ring off. The ring that Russell had bought him on holiday in Spain. They'd always said it was nothing serious. Just good friends. That occasionally had sex. Only occasionally had become regularly. Three times a day regularly. With dinner and showers thrown in. Until it was over. Greg still wasn't entirely sure why. One day they had woken up and realised they had nothing to talk about. But sometimes. He really missed Russell.

He shook his head and turned the shower dial round to cold. That did it. He really didn't want to be caught wanking in the shower. Especially as he was certain Mr Holmes would know exactly what he was wanking about.

...

"Okay. You're six foot three." John Watson made a note. "Let's check your weight."

Mycroft blushed. Greg was stood by the door pretending he wasn't there whilst the Doctor finished his examination.

"Is that completely necessary Doctor?"

"Yes." The Doctor was firm. "Hmm. You are ten stone two pounds."

"Is that too much?" The blush was complete now.

"Actually it's nowhere near enough. You should be at least twelve and a half stone. Probably a bit more with your bone structure. I think the reason you keep fainting is because your body is eating itself. I will get the blood samples processed when we dock in Italy. But until then I will give instructions to the steward regarding your meals." John Watson looked at Greg. He still seemed to be labouring under the impression that him and Mycroft were an item. "I'll also have a word with our gym instructor. I think some gentle exercise, swimming and some light weight training will help to rebuild your muscles. We have a physio on board as well. She's very good. I'll book an appointment for you."

"Physio?"

"Physiotherapist. I'm surprised they didn't give you physio before."

"They tried." Mycroft said sourly.

"In the meantime, try to relax and rest and if you need me then send for me at once. Okay?" John Watson was obviously used to his patients doing as they were told.

...

"Ridiculous!" Mycroft muttered as soon as he was out of the examination room.

"Sorry Sir?" Greg was keeping one eye peeled as they walked along the deck.

"Relax and rest! Honestly. What does he think I am? A bloody tourist? That I'm going to go and play quoits and stuff myself with ice creams and martinis? Idiot!"

A brief image of Greg feeding Mycroft ice cream flashed into the detective's mind. He shook his head.

"He is a Doctor. He does know what he's talking about." That got him a poisonous look from Mycroft before the tall man retreated into silence. Greg sighed inwardly. Three weeks of this was going to drive him mad. And there was still the matter of the other Holmes.

Sherlock was lounging on the sofa dressed in a bed sheet when they returned.

"Sherlock, why aren't you dressed?" Mycroft sounded wearily exasperated.

"I had to give Wiggins his uniform back. And I could hardly wear any of your stuff could I?" There was an undertone behind that statement that Greg struggled to process. From where he was standing the two brothers were probably more or less the same size. Mycroft was taller and broader but there was no logical reason why his clothes shouldn't be a reasonable fit for Sherlock.

"Detective Lestrade? Would you wait outside please?"

"I'm not supposed to..."

"Leave him? Alone? Really detective, Greg, the sooner you realise he's always alone the easier your job will be. Can't say the same for your wet dreams but still..." Sherlock Holmes had an annoying smirk on his face that Greg wanted to punch.

"Yes. As tempting as it is to smack him in the face, please don't. It only make this take longer." Reluctantly, Greg left the room. The quiet voices raising as he did so.

"What are you really doing here Sherlock?"

"A case."

"And it's just a coincidence that I'm on board?"

"Yes. The same way it's a coincidence that your new bodyguard is so very good looking. And he happens to look almost exactly like Rupert."

"That was years ago. How do you even remember that?"

"I couldn't delete it. Believe me I have tried. The image of your fat sweaty body naked on top of my violin tutor is not one I want to remember."

"You should have knocked."

"You shouldn't have been shagging my tutor."

"What case exactly?"

"A valuable ruby has gone missing. My client has asked me to find it."

"Of course. At what point are you expecting me to believe any of this?"

"I hate you."

"Of course you do. Now why am I not going to have you thrown overboard?"

"Think of the paperwork?"

"No one knows you are here."

"Mummy will be upset?"

"And when did you last visit her?" The voices were getting louder. Greg was unsure what to do. He suspected this was not going to help Mycroft to relax.

"I have an investigation to do Mycroft. Get out of my way."

"Dressed like that? Sherlock Holmes, put some trousers on!"

"I don't have any and I can hardly wear yours, can I fatty?" That did it. Greg was just about to kick the door open when he became aware of a presence by his shoulder.

"Hey what's going on?" John Watson looked up at Greg, eyes full of concern and his jaw set.

"Mr Holmes is arguing with his brother."

"Really? Well he can just stop that right now." John Watson gave a two tap knock and opened the door. Mycroft and Sherlock were standing face to face, Sherlock's sheet draped toga like about him. Both brothers had their hands on their hips and danger in their eyes.

"Oh Christ!" John Watson sighed. "There's two of them."


	5. Chapter 5

"Who are you?" The younger of the two Mr. Holmes swivelled his pale grey eyes onto John Watson.

"I'm the Doctor." John paused and smiled at Greg. "I love saying that!"

"Doctor who?"

"No. Doctor Watson. I do hope you're not upsetting my patient?"

"Patient?" Sherlock flicked a glance at his brother. "Of course. Well it's your own fault Mycroft. First you get yourself shot. Then you nearly have a heart attack. How is the diet by the way?"

"What diet?" John and Greg both said it at the same time.

"Did he not say?" Sherlock looked smug. Mycroft looked furious. "His own GP put him on a diet as he was so lardy he got out of breath lifting his fork up to his mouth."

John Watson took a long appraising look at both the Holmes brothers. There was no denying the younger brother was almost ethereally beautiful. If you liked that sort of thing. All pale angles and sharp cheeks. He was thin, but seemed to be built for thinness. And not John's problem.

"I suggest you leave very quietly Sir. Before I forget you are Mr. Holmes' brother and remember I have a gun." Greg was angry. He wasn't entirely sure why.

"What can I do for you Doctor?" Mycroft tried to change the subject.

"Oh, yes. I just brought you a prescription."

"Prescription? Is he all right?" The sudden change in Sherlock's tone was confusing.

"Sherlock I am fine. Just a little under the weather. And you are giving me a headache. Go for a promenade on the poop deck or a cocktail or whatever it is people do on ships. But put some trousers on first. Take my credit card and go buy yourself something that fits. Don't think I don't know you've been practising my signature."

Sherlock muttered and went into Mycroft's bedroom. Appearing very shortly wearing a pair of black trousers and a blue shirt. Both were a little large. He was still barefoot.

"I can't find any shoes. Mycroft you have unfeasibly large feet. You're probably adopted."

"Sorry. You're his brother?" John Watson looked from one scowling man to the other.

"Yes. Do try to keep up." Now Sherlock just looked bored.

"I don't have another Holmes on the passenger list. And you're not staff. So what are you doing here? Other than annoying my patient?"

"I'm on a case."

"A case?"

"Yes. I'm a consulting Detective."

"Is that a real thing?" John was not all that impressed.

"It's a job title my brother made up for himself. It was that or be a pirate."

"Technically, he's boarded a ship without permission so he is a pirate."Greg muttered. Sherlock looked rather pleased with himself.

"I will be speaking to the Captain shortly. In the meantime Doctor, could you possibly show my darling little brother where he can get some clothing?"

"As long as you make sure you get that prescription sorted out."

"I'll make sure it's sorted." Without realising, Greg had placed a protective hand on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft, seated in one of the squishy chairs, made no attempt to shrug the hand off. John Watson smiled to himself. Bodyguard? Yeah right!

Sherlock and Doctor Watson left the cabin, the last thing Greg heard as they walked up the corridor was Sherlock asking "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Silence. Thick gluey quiet. Greg suddenly aware of where his hand was. He coughed.

"Right. Prescription. And breakfast." He said it in what he hoped was a business like tone.

"I've had breakfast." Mycroft was fiddling with his mobile phone.

"You had black coffee and a piece of dry toast. That isn't breakfast, it's punishment. There are thirty six different restaurants on board; there must be some food you like."

"I don't like food. I have a...difficult relationship with it."

"Well the Doctor says you have to eat. And if you don't eat food you'll get stuck with those protein shakes body builders use. And they taste disgusting. Come on. We need to turn you back into that handsome bloke in the photos." It left his mouth before he could stop it.

"What photos?"

"The ones in the briefing folder." Greg was blushing. He retrieved the folder from the table and cringed as he showed Mycroft the pictures he had been looking at earlier.

"Oh. Those." He paused. "You think he's handsome?"

"Yes. Yes I do." Greg decided honesty was probably the best policy. Mycroft probably knew the answers already. Greg felt like a mouse being played with by a cat. Probably a Ginger Tom.

"Does he remind you of your previous partner?" It was strange that Mycroft referred to himself in the third person. Third person disgusted if there was such a tense. Greg though for a moment. Russell was tall, taller even than Mycroft, and he certainly wasn't small. But no, he was different. Mycroft didn't remind him of Russell.

He actually reminded Greg of someone else. Someone he'd never actually met. But how did you explain that?


	6. Chapter 6

"Under what circumstances is that considered to be chocolate flavoured?" Mycroft's face was a picture as he swallowed a mouthful of the protein drink the Gym Instructor had given him.

"I did tell you they were disgusting." Greg was trying not to laugh. But then it had been a funny morning. John Watson moved quickly it seemed. And by three in the afternoon Mycroft had been booked in for his first, very private, appointment at the Ship's Gym. They were very thorough as well, testing reflexes, cardio, body fat, the whole lot.

"You have one and a half per cent body fat." The instructor smiled nervously as she took the measurement.

"Oh. Is that bad? Too high?"

"Most Olympic Athletes don't have body fat that low. You actually need body fat for energy, otherwise your body has no choice but to eat its muscles. For such a clever man you really don't seem to know a lot about human anatomy." She noted it down on her clipboard.

"How do you know I'm clever?" Mycroft actually smiled at her. His whole face lit up for a brief moment.

"You remind me of my father."

"He must be very proud that you are following him in to medicine, Miss Hooper."

"How did you know that?" She laughed. Again he smiled at her. This annoyed Greg no end. Mycroft hadn't smiled at him yet. Not like that anyway.

"It's a trick he does." Greg grunted and loaded the bench press machine up with weights.

"It's a good trick." She was going to flutter her eyelashes at Mycroft. "Erm, just be careful with that Greg, you don't want to strain yourself."

"It's fine." Greg grunted as he struggled to push the bench press up. Both Molly Hooper and Mycroft ignored him as Molly began to run through a list of exercises with Mycroft. Greg realised after two minutes of straining away on the bench press he was behaving like a teenager trying to impress someone he fancied. Then he realised that was exactly what he was doing. If he had been on dry land, this would be the time to call control and ask for a replacement. But he wasn't on dry land. He was at sea. Literally and metaphorically.

...

The water was grey and choppy, white horses dancing to the sides of the ship. The sky was dirty-hanky white and that thick silence was back in spades. The stateroom balcony overlooked the waves and to a casual observer it might seem as though the two men were enjoying afternoon tea with a sea view.

Greg had been assured the glass was bulletproof. It had been fitted specially. But he wasn't taking any chances. Mycroft had enquired sarcastically as to whether he was expecting an attack by gun-toting haddock. So there was a sense of humour buried somewhere. Greg had muttered the usual about it being his job. So now they were sat awkwardly with tea and cakes between them and Greg's gun on the table.

"More tea, Detective?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Help yourself to cake. The Chef is French, I'm told." Greg accepted the rather twee cup and saucer from Mycroft and looked at the frankly bewildering array of sweet stuff on the trolley that room service had brought in. They were determined to give Mycroft the five star treatment whether he wanted it or not. He picked a slice of chocolaty stuff and took a forkful.

It was delicious. The best thing he had ever tasted. Probably. It was light, and creamy and slightly bitter. Greg made a very undignified noise. Without thinking he loaded the fork up and held it out.

"You have got to try this! This is the best chocolate cake ever!" It was an automatic thing. Him and Russell used to do it all the time. And it seemed Mycroft was on auto pilot as well as he opened his mouth and allowed Greg to feed him. Mycroft looked a little surprised.

"That is fantastic! I had something similar at a state banquet is Paris three years ago, but it wasn't anywhere near as good." He actually sounded enthusiastic.

"Do you want some more?" Greg held out the fork. Mycroft gave him one of those dazzling smiles and leaned in towards him. Greg felt his cock stirring in his trousers and adjusted his position in the chair to try and hide the fact. Mycroft leant further forwards, placing a hand on the arm of Greg's chair to balance himself. The hair on the back of his hand brushed against Greg's forearm. It felt like a small electric shock. Mycroft's eyes closed as he took the fork in his mouth. Greg took a deep breath and leaned in closer.

"Well done Detective, if he's got you feeding him cake it's only three stages off letting you into his bed." Sherlock drawled from the doorway, resplendent in his new clothing. Tight purple shirt and black trousers, jacket slung casually over his shoulder. Mycroft glared at his brother.

"Sherlock get out!"

"Oh I'm not stopping. I just came by to tell you that after your little chat with the Captain I've been given my own cabin. Well. I'm sharing a cabin. Sort of. Turns out Doctor Watson has a spare bunk. Anyway. Came to tell you that. Cabin 221B. Laters!" He slinked out of view, reminding Greg of an elegant spider retreating back into the skirting boards.

Greg sighed. Mycroft stood and looked out over the sea, picking out something in the middle distance.

"Dolphins!" He explained. Greg was genuinely interested, and thinking to himself that Mycroft must have very good eyesight to be able to pick out a porpoise leaping in and out of the grey foam. Greg peered out. He couldn't see anything but waves.

"Where?"

"Over there." Mycroft pointed. Sure enough two Dolphins were leaping in and out of the water.

"Oh yeah!" Greg laughed and watched, before reminding himself he was supposed to be doing a job, not Dolphin spotting. He turned and bumped into Mycroft, who was standing right behind him. Greg took a deep breath and a step backwards unsure what to do. With anyone else he would have kissed them. Or ground his straining groin against them. Or just ripped their clothes off.

"Sorry." Mycroft blushed, taking Greg's hesitation for rejection. "I...shouldn't...sorry...not your job."

"My job is to look after you." Greg smiled. "Now what were these other three stages that your brother was talking about?"


	7. Chapter 7

The delicate cup and saucer clattered with a resigned finality to the floor, where they were saved from breaking by the thick carpet. Mycroft blushed a deep red and looked down at the spreading puddle of tea. When he finally looked back up his eyes were watery, as though he was trying not to cry. He looked at Greg. Stared at him for a few moments and then without saying anything he simply walked away, into his room.

_Too much_. Greg said it under his breath, mentally kicking himself. _And not very professional_. But his internal berating still didn't stop him wanting to know what the other three stages were. He left it ten minutes, taking the time to clean up the spilled tea. Then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and went to apologise.

Mycroft was asleep. Curled up into the same foetal position that he had slept in the previous night, hugging tightly onto the pillow. He didn't look comfortable. He hadn't bothered to remove his shoes. Or any of his clothes. Greg gave himself a mental slap. Then he carefully removed the rather formal, and obviously handmade leather brogues that Mycroft was wearing and pulled the duvet over him. Mycroft murmured something in his sleep and hug the pillow tighter to his chest. Greg sighed and reached out a hand, without thinking, gently touching the side of Mycroft's face and brushing a couple of stray hairs from his temple. His skin was warm and the rough stubble contrasted with his soft hair.

It was tempting to kiss him. It was even more tempting to slip under the duvet next to him. But that was a whole new level of wrong. And there was still the small matter of what Mycroft actually did for Her Majesty's Government. He was certainly important enough to have Greg fired without the chance of appeal or pension.

Mycroft released his death grip on the pillow and relaxed his position a little.

"Okay." Greg whispered it to himself, not quite sure whether to leave or stay. Mycroft rolled over on to his back, his breathing slow and even. Greg wanted to stay and watch him sleeping. But knew he couldn't. He retreated back out into the palatial living area.

Glancing out of the window he could see the dolphins still leaping about. All right for some. One of them did a flip out of the waves, spinning in mid air before plopping gracefully back down into the water. Show off!

Greg settled himself back down in the chair nearest the window. The tea was still hot. He poured himself another cup and grabbed a biscuit to dunk in it whilst he considered exactly what was going on.

Meanwhile, in Cabin 221b, Doctor John Watson was glaring at his new room-mate. Said room-mate was stretched out on the small sofa, feet hanging over the edge and taking up far more room than someone so lacking in body mass should be able to. Sherlock Holmes was reading the print out of his brother's medical records with morbid interest.

"And you say his blood pressure is normal?"

"Yes. Which considering what he's been through is a miracle. And you shouldn't be reading those."

"He's my brother."

"He's my patient."

"I was here first. What about his kidney function? Heart rate? Lung capacity?"

"They're all within normal ranges. Why do you want to know? Do you inherit or something?"

"I am a concerned member of his family."

"Really? Concerned family members usually go out of their way not to upset the patient. Usually by not stowing away so that the patient has to pull strings with the ship's captain. I know your brother is a VIP. That's why he's got the Queen Elizabeth Suite. And why you haven't been set adrift in a lifeboat. His security clearances are quite impressive too. Who is he? Really?"

"He works for the government. Although it's more accurate to say at times he is the Government, and the secret service, and the CIA. When he's not being a fat pain in my arse. He's dangerous. The most dangerous man you will ever meet."

"And yet he seems lost." John was busying himself making tea. There was something sticky in the bottom of his mug.

"He is lost. Literally all at sea! And then they've dumped a handsome body guard on him. Someone in Security's idea of a joke I expect. My brother is known as the Iceman of Whitehall. He doesn't have relationships. He has arrangements."

"What about you?"

"Me? Well I'm flattered that you are asking but I'm married to my work."

"I wasn't asking, actually. Married to your work? This is the consulting detective thing?"

"Yes."

There was a knock at the door of the cabin and John opened it to reveal a thin, ratty looking man with a flustered expression on his sour face.

"Mr Anderson? Are you allright?"

"Captain's compliments Doctor Watson and could you attend the Churchill bar at once? We have a situation."

"A situation?"

"Yes, Sir. It's Lord Gresham. I think he might be dead..." Anderson paused. "And i think he may have been poisoned!"

"Poisoned?" John and Sherlock said it at the same time. John grabbed his bag. Sherlock pulled on his shoes.

"Where do you think you're going?" John asked

"A poisoning of an aristocrat on board a ship? I wouldn't miss this for the world!" Sherlock was running off up the corridor before anyone could say anything else.


	8. Chapter 8

"I really can't leave you alone for five minutes can I?" Mycroft stood wearily leaning against the back of a chair. Sherlock stood opposite him, hands on hips.

"It's not like I did this on purpose." The answer was a raised eyebrow. "I didn't."

"It's some kind of Organic poison, at a guess." John Watson said it to no one in particular. "There's a blackening around the fingertips and the lips and nose. It'll need a proper autopsy though."

"Can you do that on board?" The Captain was hovering anxiously.

"It probably ought to be an official police pathologist. I'm not even sure who has jurisdiction. Where are we?"

"Near Spain." Sherlock said it without looking up from his position of face down on the carpet.. "I noticed the angle of the waves had changed earlier. And I can smell paella."

Greg sniffed the air. He could smell whisky, garlic bread, perfume, Mycroft's aftershave... He glanced sideways. Mycroft was standing very close to him.

"...policeman." Greg looked up, all eyes were on him.

"What?"

"I said that I understood that before you were a special detail detective you were an ordinary policeman." Sherlock looked on, impatiently.

"Er, yes. I was. Plain clothes, CID." That aftershave really smelled quite nice.

"So you've handled a crime scene before?" Sherlock prompted.

"Yes."

"Good. Nothing worse than catching a murderer only to have them escape because the police haven't done their job properly. And some idiot has forgotten to fill in a form." Sherlock glared at his brother. He obviously thought the whole form filling thing was down to him. "I assume you can fill in forms Detective?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft spoke quietly, but his voice was shot through with ice. "Gregory is not here for you to order about."

"I forgot. He does what you tell him. Well almost everything you tell him." Sherlock smirked annoyingly.

"I'd check the pleats of his cummerbund if I were you Sherlock." Sherlock scowled at his brother.

"I was going to."

"Of course you were."

"Do you want to do it?"

"You know how I despise legwork Sherlock."

Sherlock peered carefully into the folds of the corpse's cummerbund, stretched uncomfortably around the man's impressive belly. Sure enough, there it was, in the crease of the fabric.

"Tweezers."

"What?" John was busy with the other end of the body.

"Give me some tweezers Doctor, and a bag. This is evidence." Sherlock snatched the tweezers from John's hand and withdrew what looked like a few brightly coloured feathers.

"What is that?"

"Some kind dart." Sherlock carefully placed the feathers in a specimen jar that john was holding.

"Poisoned?" Sherlock gave John a withering look. "How does someone fire off a poisoned dart without anyone noticing?"

"A not unintelligent question!" Mycroft smiled warmly at John. "I assume that is a blow dart? The assassin would have to be close enough to be in range, I estimate even with a powerful pair of lungs that can't be more than fifteen feet or so."

"They would also need a clear shot." Sherlock continued.

"And a clear line of sight"

"For them."

"But yet concealed from sight of others. Someone placing a blow pipe to his lips would be rather conspicuous."

"Would have to be dressed as a crew member."

"Or not be in the general line of sight. Can you find the entry point of the dart, Doctor Watson?"

"Erm...under the chin I think." John noted the small red mark.

"Odd angle." Sherlock lay on the floor and lined his brother up along a breadstick. "Would have to be a child?"

"Not a child, Sherlock. Captain, do you have any members of the crew or passengers who are Little People?"

" Like dwarves? There's a troop of acrobats, part of the cabaret. The Tumbling Piccolos. And then there's Jack Daneman, he's one of the Senior Stewards, but Jack's been with the company for years."

"We shall need to interview them."

"We Mycroft?"

"Can I trust you to do it and not offend anyone?"

"Of course brother dear. Why doesn't your pet policeman sit in?"

"No, Sherlock. I'm sure you and Doctor Watson can handle it. I'm going to go back to my cabin, I'm bored with all this now." Greg paused for a moment, torn between the crime scene and following Mycroft.

"Go on!" Sherlock nodded and gestured after his brother.

"What?" Greg didn't understand

"What is it like inside your head? He's bored!" Sherlock all but pushed Greg in the direction Mycroft had gone. "That's step one!"

Greg suddenly found himself hurrying after Mycroft.


	9. Chapter 9

The soft fabric of the cashmere sweater clung to the delicate outline of his frame. He was silhouetted against the window by the ship's running lights. Greg stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching.

"There's no need to be quite so alarmed, Detective. My brother is, as usual, quite mistaken. Matters of the heart are not his area of expertise." He paused. "Neither is anything to do with sex."

"There's a difference between the two?" Greg tried to imagine having sex with someone he felt nothing for. He took a step inside the cabin and closed the door.

"In my experience. Or lack thereof."

"Oh." Greg blushed. "Never had a relationship then?"

"No, not really. Plenty of sex though. As I know you are wondering." Even though he couldn't see them, Greg knew the bright blue eyes were staring at him. "Do sit down."

Mycroft moved away from the window and collapsed elegantly onto the nearest comfortable chair, his long legs stretched out , arms resting on the sides of the chair. Open. Inviting. His hair was sticking up at the back. Greg fought the urge to smooth it down.

"So...the dead bloke...I'm going to have to let control know. We'll have to increase your security. They'll get some more officers for when we dock in Italy." Greg took the seat opposite.

"Are you hungry? I'm hungry. Shall we get something to eat?" This was change of direction Greg had not seen coming.

"You? You're hungry?" He smiled. The smile was returned. "So what do you fancy then...er to eat that is?" Smooth Greg, very smooth.

"Honestly? A rare steak, chips, garlic bread and sherry trifle. And how about some champagne?" he was reaching for the cabin phone.

"What are we celebrating?"

"That life is mercifully short. What do you want Gregory?...To eat that is." Hmm Cheeky!

"Er...yeah...Steak sounds good. I like Medium." Greg looked on whilst Mycroft phoned through to the steward's office. The tall man sounded different. Almost cheerful as he ordered the steaks and what sounded like the most expensive bottle of champagne on the boat.

"They say it will be fifteen minutes. What would you like to do for fifteen minutes?" The phone was back in its cradle and Mycroft was still lounging in his seat. Relaxed. Greg leaned forwards. He supposed it was now or never.

"What happened to you? You got shot, even a plod like me can see that, but how? And why? And what happened then? And who is Rupert?"

"Damn. I was really hoping you wouldn't ask. You must have been a very good policeman. I was shot carrying out my duty. That, I'm afraid, is all I can tell you about the how and the why. What happened then? I was rushed to hospital, operated on, unconscious for a week. When I woke up, I realised I wasn't as important as I thought I was. Yes they had missed me. Yes there were things they needed me to do. But the world had not ceased its revolution of the sun. It had continued. Sherlock had been looked after. I realised I was expendable. That all lives end. Mine included. There seemed little point after that."

"Little point in what?"

"In anything. I tried to continue of course. But my appetite for life and everything in it seemed to have gone. I decided it would be best if I were to fade away."

"Literally fade away? I don't understand. Surely you have family other than Sherlock? Boyfriends? Old lovers? Members of your staff? Someone to miss you."

"No one. Which brings us to Rupert. He was quite beautiful. Sherlock's violin tutor. Rupert was a child prodigy. So very gifted. He was three years older than me. I wanted him the moment I saw him. I was 14. In some ways I was very advanced. In others still a child. And as my brother is so fond of saying I was a somewhat large boy. Fat. I never thought for a moment Rupert would return my affections. But that didn't make me want him less. So I did what I do best. I manipulated the situation to get what I wanted. I managed to get Rupert alone after a garden party, I plied him with alcohol and then asked him to have sex with me. He laughed. I think that hurt the most. I knew he would laugh of course, but it was the confirmation of it. I told him if he didn't have sex with me I would tell my parents he had been stealing from them. My trump card. So he agreed. We were in my room, I honestly thought I had locked the door. He had been looking at me with a measure of disgust until I removed my underpants. Then his whole demeanour changed. He was, what I believe is colloquially called a size queen and I am apparently very well endowed. Well, then he was begging me to have sex with him. Begging me to fill him. Which I did. Repeatedly. Until Sherlock barged in on us. He saw everything. I don't know if he truly understood or not, but the end result was him running downstairs and announcing loudly to our parents and their remaining guests that me and his violin tutor were in my bed with no clothes on. Rupert was dismissed the same day. I was punished. Quite severely. My father sent me to a military training facility for three months. After he had thrashed me and told me I was a disgusting, fat little deviant who would come to bad end having amounted to nothing. It backfired on him of course, he'd sent me to a place in the middle of nowhere filled with bored, fit young men in uniforms, I had sex with at least thirty two of them, hardly the best way of curing me. When I came back I had grown six inches upwards, lost all my fat and replaced it with muscle. He was scared of me. But I suppose he was right. In the end I will be nothing." Mycroft paused and the silence was a little strained.

"Bloody hell!" Greg knew it sounded stupid, but really what else was there to say? There was a knock at the door.

"Steward Service!" Greg stood, one hand hovering above the gun on his belt, and answered the door. A neatly built young man with glittering eyes pushed a cart containing their dinner into the cabin. "Would you like me to open the Champagne Sir?" He smiled a toothy grin.

"No thank you." Mycroft had stood and popped a twenty pound note into the Steward's top pocket.

"Thank you sir! Enjoy your meal." The Steward's Irish accent lilted as he closed the door behind him.

"I'm just going to check this." Greg looked under the white cloth covering the cart. "Never trusted waiters since I saw Diamonds Are Forever." It all seemed to be in order. Mycroft opened the champagne with a well practiced ease and poured two glasses. He held one up with a smile that made Greg's groin throb and then turned his attention to the large plate of steak and chips.


End file.
